“As you can laugh at the rumour regarding yourself and the bills?” remarked Thomas.
“As I can and do,” answered easy George. Never more easy, more apparently free from care than at that moment. Thomas Godolphin, truthful himself, open as the day, not glancing to the possibility that George could be deliberately otherwise, felt all his confidence return to him. George went out, and Thomas turned to the books again.
Yes. They were all in order, all right. With those flourishing statements before him, how could he have been so foolish as to cast suspicion on George? Thomas had a pen in one hand, and the fore-finger of the other pointed to the page, when his face went white as one in mortal agony, and drops of moisture broke out upon his brow.
The same pain, which had taken him occasionally before, had come to him again. Mortal agony in verity it seemed. He dropped the pen; he lay back in his chair; he thought he must have fallen to the ground. How long he so lay he could not quite tell: not very long probably, counted by minutes; but counted by pain long enough for a lifetime. Isaac Hastings, coming in with a message, found him. Isaac stood aghast.
“I am not very well, Isaac. Give me your arm. I will go and sit for a little time in the dining-room.”
“Shall I run over for Mr. Snow, sir?”
“No. I shall be better soon. In fact, I am better, or I could not talk to you. It was a sudden paroxysm.”
He leaned upon Isaac Hastings, and reached the dining-room. It was empty. Isaac left him there, and proceeded, unordered, to acquaint Mr. George Godolphin. He could not find him.
“Mr. George has gone out,” said a clerk. “Not two minutes ago.”
“I had better tell Maria, then,” thought Isaac. “He does not look fit to be left alone.”